ALVMNVS  BOOK  FYND 


CURTAINS 


CURTAINS 

By  HAZEL  HALL 


/  have  curtained  my  window  with  filmy  seemirf/, 
Overhanging  it  with  chintz  of  dreaming, 
That  I  may  watch  through  sun  and  rain 
Beside   the  windowpane. 

Faintly  my  curtains  stir  and  flutter 
Before  the  words  that  loud  rains  utter, 
And  through  their  fabric,  cool  and  still, 
The  sun  falls  on  the  sill. 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 
MCMXXI 


COPYRIGHT,  1921, 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


NOTE.  In  certain  of  these  poems  I 
have  blended  metrical  and  irregular 
rhythms  in  an  attempt  to  contrast  mono 
tonous  motion,  presented  in  even  meas 
ures,  with  interruption  which  is  expressed 
in  freer  forms. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


469833 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  many  of 
the  following  poems  the  author  wishes  to 
thank  the  editors  of  Poetry,  Poet  Lore, 
Contemporary  Verse,  The  New  Republic, 
Harpers  Magazine,  The  Nation,  The  Lib 
erator,  The  Dial,  Smart  Set,  Sunset,  Touch 
stone,  The  Boston  Transcript  and  other 
publications. 


CONTENTS 

PART  ONE:  CURTAINS 

FRAMES •  13 

JUNE    NIGHT 14 

SUN  GLAMOUR  .      ...     .     ...     .      .  15 

THE  WORLD'S  VOICE 16 

SEASONS       ............  18 

FOOTSTEPS  ...........  19 

To  A  DOOR 20 

FLOOR  OF  A  ROOM    .......*  21 

THE  HAND-GLASS  .........  22 

SILENCE 23 

THINGS  THAT  GROW 24 

STAIRWAYS   ...........  25 

NIGHT  SILENCE      .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  27 

COUNTERPANES 28 

PASSERS-BY 29 

LATE   WINTER        ..........  30 

BECAUSE   OF  JONQUILS     .     ,     .     .     .     .     .  31 

UNSEEN       .     .     .     .     ...     ...     .     .  32 

COMPANY     ...........  33 

A  CHILD  DANCING     . 34 

ROADS    ............  35 

THE  ROOM  UPSTAIRS  .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  .36 

THE  PROUD  STEED     ........  38 

7 


CONTENTS 

PART  ONE:  CURTAINS   (Continued)  PAGE 

SONGS  FOR  DREAMS 39 

NOBODY  PASSES 40 

SHADOWS 41 

TWILIGHT 42 

ECSTASY 43 

CAPTIVE 44 

COWARDICE 45 

BEFORE  THOUGHT 46 

SHADOW-BOUND 47 

A  FALLING  STAR 48 

FEET 49 

FLASH 50 

ECHOES       . 51 

LONELINESS 52 

SUNLIGHT  THROUGH  A  WINDOW 53 

RECORD 54 

MY  SONG 55 

THE  GREY  VEIL 56 

THE  ANSWER 57 

HOURS 58 

THE  CIRCLE 59 

DEFEAT 60 

THE  IMPARTIAL  GIVER 61 

SANDS  62 


PART  TWO:  NEEDLEWORK 

KNITTING   NEEDLES 67 

STITCHES 71 

MONOGRAMS 73 

8 


CONTENTS 

PART  TWO:  NEEDLEWORK  (Continued)  pAGE 

LATE  HOURS 75 

MENDING      ...........  76 

BEAD   WORK 77 

SEAMS .  79 

FINISHED  To-NiGHT 80 

A  BABY'S  DRESS 81 

CROSS-STITCH    .      . 83 

PLAIN  SEWING  ...',.- 84 

SEWING  HANDS 85 

LINGERIE 86 

FILET  CROCHET 87 

HEAVY  THREADS 89 

BUTTONHOLES 90 

PUZZLED    STITCHES 91 

SUMMER  SEWING 92 

HABIT 94 

PATHS 95 

RIPPING 96 

MADE  OF  CREPE  DE  CHINE 98 

MEASUREMENTS 99 

INSTRUCTION 100 

THEN  THE  WIND  BLEW 101 

MY  NEEDLE'S  THREAD 102 

Two  SEWING 103 

THE  LISTENING  MACAWS 105 

THE  LONG  DAY     . 106 

INANIMATE .  107 

AFTER  EMBROIDERING  ........  108 

THREE  SONGS  FOR  SEWING 109 

LATE  SEWING    .  112 


CONTENTS 

PART  THREE:  SPRING  FROM  A  WINDOW 

PAGE 

BLOSSOM-TIME 115 

IN  APRIL 116 

WHEN  THERE  is  APRIL    .     .     .     .     .     .     .  117 

FOREBODING      .     .     .     .     .  118 


10 


PART  ONE 
CURTAINS 


FRAMES 

Brown  window-sill,  you  hold  my  all  of  skies, 
And  all  I  know  of  springing  year  and  fall, 
And  everything  of  earth  that  greets  my  eyes — 
Brown  window-sill,  how  can  you  hold  it  all? 

Grey  walls,  my  days  are  bound  within  your  hold, 
Cast  there  and  lost  like  pebbles  in  a  sea; 
And  all  my  thought  is  squared  to  fit  your  mould — 
Grey  wall,  how  mighty  is  your  masonry! 


13 


JUNE  NIGHT 


Into  my  room  to-night  came  June, 
A  band  of  stars  caught  up  her  hair, 
And  woven  of  the  mist  of  moon, 
And  patterned  from  the  leaf -laced  air, 
Her  garments  spread  a  soft  perfume 
Over  the  shadows  of  my  room. 

But  hardly  had  her  coming  stirred 
My  darkness  with  a  hope  like  dawn, 
Or  had  my  anxious  silence  heard 
Her  faint  footfall,  than  she  was  gone. 
She  went  as  though  with  a  quick  fear 
Of  the  eternal  winter  here. 


14 


SUN  GLAMOUR 

The  day  has  brought  me  sun-loaned  cheer, 
And  to  unchangeable  ways,  change  .   .  . 
But  dusk  is  here  to  make  them  strange, 
Making  them  clear. 


15 


THE  WORLD'S  VOICE 

If  I  listen  shall  I  hear 

Sounds  that  seem  to  hover  near? 

Speech  of  ship  calling  to  ship 

Through  dark  tides  that  twist  and  grip, 

Dash  of  spray  on  a  splintered  coast, 

The  whisper-flutter  of  a  host 

Of  sun-coloured  butterflies 

Wheeling  under  marbled  skies; 

The  jabber  of  a  little  wind 

Where  the  meadows'  grass  is  thinned — 

Or  where  trees  forget  their  prides 

To  sway  in  unison  like  tides; 

All  the  city's  formal  din; 

All  the  hush  where  big  streets  thin 

To  little  crooked  lanes  and  lose 

Themselves  as  the  green  distance  blues 

Into  space Oh,  everything 

That  can  either  sound  or  sing! 

To-day  my  four  grey  walls  are  strung 
So  thin,  each  echo  has  a  tongue; 
The  world  has  raised  its  voice  to-day 
That  I  may  hear  what  it  has  to  say. 


16 


I  listen  .  .  . 

What  I  hear 

Is  only  the  longing  of  an  ear 
Too  much  concerned  with  the  cry  of  space, 
And  with  listening  in  a  quiet  place. 


17 


SEASONS 


Winter,  spring,  summer  and  fall — 
Shadow-lights  upon  a  wall: 

Gleams  of  grey  fleeing  the  path 

Where  the  wind  walks  cold  with  wrath; 

Yellow-fluttered  petalled  things 
Like  flower  ghosts  of  other  springs; 

Curtains  of  dull,  sticky  gold, 
Smothering  hours  in  their  fold; 

Smoky  rays  that  stir  and  creep 
Aimlessly,  like  tired  sheep. 

Winter,  spring,  summer  and  fall — 
Shadows  fading  on  a  wall. 


18 


FOOTSTEPS 

They  pass  so  close,  the  people  on  the  street; 

Footfall,  footfall; 

I  know  them  from  their  footsteps'  pulsing  beat; 

Footfall,  footfall; 

The  tripping,  lingering  and  the  heavy  feet; 

I  hear  them  call: 

/  am  the  dance  of  youth,  and  life  is  fair! 

Footfall,  footfall; 

/  am  a  dream,  divinely  unaware! 

Footfall,  footfall; 

/  am  the  burden  of  an  old  despair! 

Footfall 


19 


TO  A  DOOR 


Door,  you  stand  in  your  darkened  frame 
Mindful  of  your  wooden  might, 
Flaunting  relentlessly  your  claim 
As  guardian  of  sound  and  light. 

Yet  for  all  your  vigil,  Door, 
Shadows  that  slip  on  panting  feet 
Over  your  threshold  tinge  the  floor 
With  what  was  sunlight  on  the  street. 

And  sounds  fluttering  in  to  die 
(Door,  you  thought  I  should  not  know!) 
Were  started  by  an  echo's  cry 
That  was  a  voice  not  long  ago. 


20 


FLOOR  OF  A  ROOM 

The  walls  and  windows  of  my  room, 

With  stolid  constancy 

Spreading  checkered  light  or  gloom, 

Belong  to  me. 

Of  all  my  room  the  floor  alone 

Is  not  my  own. 

Days,  like  armfuls  of  fresh  flowers 

Slowly    ...    I  scatter  there; 

Yet  for  my  offering  of  hours 

I  may  share 

Only  the  cold,  disquiet  rest 

Of  a  passing  guest. 

Always  I  must  waive  my  rights 
To  feet,  who,  strange  and  still, 
Press  their  claims  on  windy  nights; 
And  not  until 

I  come  again,  another  ghost, 
Shall  I  be  host. 


21 


THE  HAND-GLASS 


I  am  holding  up  a  mirror 

To  look  at  life;  in  my  hand-glass 

I  see  a  strange,  hushed  street  below  me 

Where  people  pass. 

The  street  is  coloured  like  a  picture, 

And  people  passing  there 

Move  with  the  majesty  of  story, 

And  are  less  real  and  wise  than  fair. 

Looking  at  life  in  a  mirror 

Is  distortion.     I  must  see 

Through  the  paint  the  flimsy  canvas, 

I  must  be 

Cynical,  and  judge  no  passer 

By  the  colour  of  a  dress — 

0  eyes  that  must  learn  from  a  mirror, 

Search  for  dust  and  bitterness! 


22 


SILENCE 

Silence  is  the  sound  of  footsteps 

Hushed  upon  a  stair, 

The  fluttering  of  ruffled  garments, 

A  song's  forgotten  air — 

All  the  old,  forbidden  echoes 

That  quenched  their  fevers  there. 


23 


THINGS  THAT  GROW 

I  like  things  with  roots  that  know  the  earth, 
Trees  whose  feet,  nimble  and  brown, 
Wander  around  in  the  house  of  their  birth 
Until  they  learn,  by  growing  down, 
To  build  with  branches  in  the  air; 
Ivy-vines  that  have  known  the  loam 
And  over  trellis  and  rustic  stair, 
Or  old  grey  houses,  love  to  roam ; 
And  flowers  pushing  vehement  heads, 
Like  flames  from  a  fire's  hidden  glow, 
Through  the  seething  soil  in  garden-beds. 
Yet  I,  who  am  forbidden  to  know 
The  feel  of  earth,  once  thought  to  make 
Singing  out  of  a  heart's  old  cry! 
Untaught  by  earth  how  could  I  wake 
The  shining  interest  of  the  sky? 


24 


STAIRWAYS 

Why  do  I  think  of  stairways 
With  a  rush  of  hurt  surprise? 
Wistful  as  forgotten  love 
In  remembered  eyes; 
And  fitful  as  the  flutter 
Of  little  draughts  of  air 
That  linger  on  a  stairway 
As  though  they  loved  it  there. 

New  and  shining  stairways, 
Stairways  worn  and  old, 
Where  rooms  are  prison  places 
And  corridors  are  cold, 
You  intrigue  with  fancy, 
You  challenge  with  a  lore 
Elusive  as  a  moon's  light 
Shadowing  a  floor. 


25 


You  speak  to  me  not  only 

With  the  lure  of  storied  art — 

For  wonder  of  old  footsteps 

Lies  lightly  on  my  heart; 

And  more  than  the  reminiscence 

Of  yesterday's  renown — 

Laughter  that  might  have  floated  up, 

Echoes  that  should  drift  down. 


26 


NIGHT  SILENCE 

A  great  mouth,  lean  and  grey, 
Munching  the  sounds  of  day: 
Last  voices  and  the  beat 
Of  weather  and  late  feet. 

Gently  parted  lips 
Telling  of  high  white  ships 
That  sail  the  imaged  seas 
Of  borrowed  memories. 

Inexorable  lips  shut  tight 
Over  the  tongue  of  the  night  , 

Suddenly  the  sick  sound 
Of  crickets  on  the  ground, 
Or  the  long  shuddering  bark 
Of  a  dog  into  the  dark    .    . 

Insinuations  of  vain 
Forgetfulness  of  pain, 
Taunts  of  old  moonlights 
And  other  sound-stung  nights. 


27 


COUNTERPANES 


I  will  make  myself  new  thought; 
My  own  is  worn  and  old. 
And  old  counterpanes  will  not 
Keep  out  the  wind  and  cold. 

From  borrowed  thought  I  will  choose 
Pieces,  and,  row  on  row, 
Patch  a  quilt  of  many  hues 
Like  the  quilts  of  long  ago. 

It  cannot  be  so  fine 
As  what  the  years  have  thinned, 
But  I  dread  the  smothered  whine 
Of  four  grey  walls'  grey  wind. 

I  will  patch  me  a  counterpane, 
For  mine  is  worn  to  scars, 
And  I  fear  the  iron  rain 
Of  a  ceiling's  splashing  stars. 


28 


PASSERS-BY 

You — and  you,  Passer-by — and  you; 
You,  languid  feet,  and  you,  wild  to  climb, 
Seeking  your  respite  or  star-rimmed  view, 
Where  do  you  go  down  the  streets  of  Time? 

Never  the  same,  yet  ever  the  same — 
You  and  you,  hurrying,  slow, 
Crowding  the  way  with  your  motley  claim 
Of  life,  always  you  come  and  go. 

You,  stung  with  purpose.     You,  driven  by 
Blindly  before  Creation's  sweep. 
Are  there  ways  for  the  searchers  of  stars  on  high? 
And  other  ways  for  the  seekers  of  sleep? 

Or  only  one  way  for  all  to  run?    .    .    . 
Only  one  sound  drifts  up  to  me, 
The  blend  of  every  tread  in  one, 
Impersonal  as  the  beat  of  the  sea. 


29 


LATE  WINTER 


I  am  content  with  latticed  sights: 
A  lean  grey  bough,  a  frill 
Of  filmy  cloud,  the  shadow-lights 
Upon  a  window-sill. 

I  am  content  in  wintered  days 

With  all  my  eyes  may  meet. 

April,  when  you  dance  down  these  ways 

Hush  your  awakening  feet. 


30 


BECAUSE  OF  JONQUILS 

A  ray  of  jonquils  thrills  the  grey 

And  frowning  winter  of  a  room  .  .  . 

Out  from  the  depths  of  an  old  day 

A  burst  of  spring-light  cuts  its  way, 

Lifting  the  vague  perfume 

Of  walled-in  gardens  long,  long  dumb, 

Of  blooms  that  never  bloomed  at  all    .    .    . 

Then  quickly,  as  autumn's  keen  winds  come, 

Shadows,  like  dead  leaves,  fall. 


31 


UNSEEN 


Often  I  am  awaked  from  sleep  to  see — 
Framed  like  a  picture  by  the  dark  of  night — 
The  sweep  of  space  above  a  frozen  height, 
Or,  lifting  from  a  skyline,  one  dead  tree. 
Again  it  is  the  full  tide  leaping  free 
Over  black  rocks,  or  breaking  blue  and  white. 
Again,  a  rill  that  in  leaf-filtered  light, 
With  words  of  rustling  water,  calls  to  me. 

These  are  not  dreams  of  beauty  I  have  known, 
Nor  mine  the  interest  remembrance  brings ; 
Only  my  fancy  knows  the  tides'  deep  tone, 
Only  my  longing  seeks  the  tangled  springs  .  . 
And  yet  they  make  a  clearer,  wilder  call 
Than  if  a  fond  remembering  were  all. 


32 


COMPANY 


A  footstep  sounded  from  the  street  . 
Listening,  I  knew  of  you! 
With  the  good  singing  of  your  feet 
You  came  in,  too. 

Companioned  by  the  sun  and  rain, 
Mingling  with  the  winds  at  will, 
You  passed,  but  in  your  step's  refrain 
I  have  you  still. 


33 


A  CHILD  DANCING 

A  child  with  unmanageable  feet 

Skips  on  the  street  below; 

The  wind  has  invited  her  to  race, 

The  sun  is  a  kiss  upon  her  face 

And  the  world  a  great  applauding  place. 

I  know    .    .    . 

She  dances  now  with  timid  step, 
Light  as  new  leaves  blow. 
Her  skirts  are  wings  of  butterflies, 
And  with  every  feathery  grace  she  tries 
Her  feet  cry  out  life's  glad  surprise    . 
I  know 


34 


ROADS 


One  road  leads  out  to  the  country-side; 
One  road  goes  by  on  its  way  to  town; 
And  always,  as  long  as  the  sun  is  guide, 
The  feet  that  love  them  go  up  and  down. 

After  the  evening  star's  white  light 
Has  lured  from  the  hills  or  the  lighted  town, 
There  are  other  feet  all  through  the  night, 
Following  dreams  up  and  down. 


35 


THE  ROOM  UPSTAIRS 


Room  just  above  me 

Over  my  own, 

I  have  not  seen  you, 

I  have  not  known 

Where  your  big  bed  stands, 

Where  is  your  chair, 

Whether  your  windows 

Look  here  or  look  there. 

Room  just  above  me, 

Long  have  I  kept 

Vigil  below  you 

While  others  slept, 

Thinking  of  footsteps 

Known  to  your  floor, 

Which  passed  from  your  threshold 

To  come  there  no  more. 

Room  just  above  me, 
To-night  it  seems 
There  is  new  creaking 
Over  your  beams; 


36 


It  might  be  the  night-wind, 
It  might  be  tke  tread 
Of  one  who  is  lonely, 
Or  bored,  being  dead. 


37 


THE  PROUD  STEED 


I  plunge  at  the  rearing  hours: 
Life  is  a  steed  of  pride, 
Who  so  high  above  me  towers 
I  cannot  mount  and  ride. 


38 


SONGS  FOR  DREAMS 

Some  dreams  that  I  have  loved 
And  dreamed  by  night  and  day, 
Though  they  are  lost  to  me, 
Are  never  far  away. 

A  part  of  lurking  winds, 
Of  silence  in  grey  rooms — 
From  every  echoed  sound, 
And  out  of  corner-glooms 

They  come  as  strange  as  ghosts, 
A  little  death-sad  throng, 
Beseeching  me  with  praying  hands 
To  give  them  life  in  song. 


39 


NOBODY  PASSES 


Nobody  passes  on  the  street. 

The  day  is  set,  like  a  stage,  for  feet, 

With  a  ridge  of  white  clouds  painted  high 

Across  the  canvas  of  the  sky; 

With  pavement  gleaming  and  too  clean ; 

A  shimmer  of  grass  that  seems  too  green, 

And  houses  alert  on  every  side 

Showing  a  stiff  and  conscious  pride. 

The  day  is  a  stage,  and  life  is  a  play — 

But  nobody  passes  down  this  way. 


SHADOWS 


One  shadow  on  my  wall,  an  intimate 
Of  dusk,  comes  only  when  it  comes  alone. 
It  lifts  out  of  new  dark  and  spreads  a  great 
Wing  of  quiet  where  once  the  sun  has  shone, 
Cooling  the  air  like  rain  on  stone. 

Such  shadow  might  find  entrance  to  a  tomb, 
And  be  at  home  in  places  where  the  dead 
Are  fitful  sleepers;  moving  through  the  gloom 
It  might  lay  benediction  on  a  head 
That  death  has  left  uncomforted. 


41 


TWILIGHT 


Tiptoeing  twilight, 
Before  you  pass, 
Bathe  light  my  spirit 
As  dew  bathes  grass. 

Quiet  the  longing 
Of  my  hands  that  yearn, 
As  you  fold  the  flower 
And  hush  the  fern. 

Guard  me  with  shadows 
To  fortify 

My  failing  purpose, 
My  tired  eye, 

That  in  your  stillness 
I  may  relight 
My  faith's  frail  candle 
Before  the  night. 


42 


ECSTASY 

For  moments  of  this  life's  swift  cycle  made 
Commemorable  with  you,  0  Ecstasy, 
Shall  we  be  reconciled  in  worlds  to  be, 
Shall  we  find  recompense  when  death  is  paid? 
I  can  imagine  in  eternal  shade 
Solace  for  tired  dreams,  and  in  the  sea 
Equivalent  for  moods  of  stress  or  glee; 
In  stars  an  old  unrest  merged  and  allayed. 

What  element  can  give  us,  in  your  name, 

Redress  which  is  appreciable  before 

The  concept  of  the  universal  mind? 

You,  who  are  multiform,  to  one  a  flame, 

Soul-scourging;  to  another  are  defined 

In  sudden  earth-breaths  through  an  opened  door. 


43 


CAPTIVE 


My  spirit  is  a  captive  bird 
That  beats  against  its  cage  all  day, 
Until  its  winging  strength  is  whirred 
Vainly  away. 

My  spirit  learns  its  impotence 
Only  when  night  has  blurred  its  bars. 
Wings  seem  a  strange  impertinence 
Before  the  stars. 


44 


COWARDICE 


Discomfort  sweeps  my  quiet  as  a  wind 

Leaps  at  trees  and  leaves  them  cold  and  thinned. 

Not  that  I  fear  again  the  mastery 

Of  winds,  for  holding  my  indifference  dear 

I  do  not  feel  illusions  stripped  from  me. 

And  yet  this  is  a  fear — 

A  fear  of  old  discarded  fears,  of  days 

That  cried  out  at  irrevocable  ways. 

I  cower  for  my  own  old  cowardice, 

For  hours  that  beat  upon  the  wind's  broad  breast 

With  hands  as  impotent  as  leaves  are;  this 

Robs  my  new  hour  of  rest. 

I  thought  my  pride  had  covered  long  ago 
All  the  old  scars,  like  broken  twigs  in  snow. 
I  thought  to  luxuriate  in  rich  decay, 
As  some  far-seeing  tree  upon  a  hill; 
But  startled  into  shame  for  an  old  day 
I  find  that  I  am  but  a  coward  still. 


45 


BEFORE  THOUGHT 


Dawn  paints  quaint  histories 
In  pageant  on  my  wall; 
Imminent  destinies 
Concern  it  not  at  all. 


46 


SHADOW-BOUND 

You  whom  the  shadows  beckoned 
Long  and  long  ago, 
Who  taught  me  the  flaming  utterance 
Of  words,  now  strange  and  slow 
On  my  lips  that  loved  them 
Long — Oh,  long  ago    .    .    . 

Why  have  you  stirred  the  silence 
That  flowered  from  my  pain? 
Just  now  your  anxious  footstep 
Sounded  above  the  rain; 
Just  now  your  eyes,  beseeching, 
Shadowed  my  windowpane. 


47 


A  FALLING  STAR 


I  hope  I  shall  remember, 

The  day  I  come  to  die, 

The  welcome  of  this  morning's  dawn, 

This  evening's  good-night  sky. 

I  hope  I  shall  remember 

The  kindly  little  star, 

Caught  in  to-night's  mist-niatted  hair, 

Which  greeted  me  afar. 

And  how  as  I  was  watching, 
Loving  its  little  light, 
Fleet  as  a  dream  it  dropped  and  fell 
Into  the  urn  of  night. 


48 


FEET 


Feet,  I  am  weary  of  your  beat; 
All  day,  all  year,  all  life  you  pass 
Below  me  on  the  street, 
Driven  upon  my  hearing  as  the  grass 
Before  wild  rain  and  sleet. 

You  snatch  up  in  your  tidal  tone 
The  reaching  rhythms  of  my  peace 
And  substitute  your  drone, 
Until  intimidated  dreams  release 
The  visions  they  have  known. 

Feet,  I  am  weary  of  your  stave — 
The  little  course  your  sounds  pursue— 
Weary  that  I  must  waive 
My  reaches  in  subservience  to  you, 
Who  seek  only  a  grave. 


49 


FLASH 

I  am  less  of  myself  and  more  of  the  sun; 
The  beat  of  life  is  wearing  me 
To  an  incomplete  oblivion, 
Yet  not  to  the  certain  dignity 
Of  death.     They  cannot  even  die 
Who  have  not  lived. 

The  hungry  jaws 

Of  space  snap  at  my  unlearned  eye, 
And  time  tears  in  my  flesh  like  claws. 

If  I  am  not  life's,  if  I  am  not  death's, 
Out  of  chaos  I  must  re-reap 
The  burden  of  untasted  breaths. 
Who  has  not  waked  may  not  yet  sleep. 


50 


ECHOES 


Day-long  I  hear  life's  sounds  beat  like  the  sea; 

Day-long,  day-long 

They  sweep  their  deep  tide-rhythms  over  me, 

And  as  a  song 

Reiterated,  fall  unmeaningly. 

Where  once  I  bent  life's  echoes  to  my  will, 

Day  after  day 

Following  wings  of  sound  over  the  sill 

Far,  far  away, 

Now  my  sick  fancy  lies  inert  and  still. 

Silence  that  slowly  wraps  me  with  the  ease 

Of  dreamed-out  sleep,    . 

Quenches  the  sound  of  vague  realities 

Whose  echoes  keep 

Their  rhythms  like  old  winds  in  drying  seas. 


51 


LONELINESS 


Sometimes  when  I  am  long  alone 
I  wonder  what  is  loneliness — 
This  silence  like  a  deep  bell's  tone, 
These  moments,  motionless? 

This  hush  above  the  nervous  street? 
Removed  as  is  the  tree  that  stands, 
Hill-high,  with  burrowing  root-feet 
And  boughs  like  reaching  hands. 

As  in  my  blood  I  feel  life  press, 
Like  sap  into  the  frailest  bough, 
I  think  if  such  is  loneliness 
Then  I  am  lonely  now. 


52 


SUNLIGHT  THROUGH  A  WINDOW 

Beauty  streamed  into  my  hand 
In  sunlight  through  a  pane  of  glass ; 
Now  at  last  I  understand 
Why  suns  must  pass. 

I  have  held  a  shadow,  cool 
Reflection  of  a  burning  gold, 
And  it  has  been  more  beautiful 
Than  hands  should  hold. 

To  that  delicate  tracery 

Of  light,  a  force  my  lips  must  name 

In  whispers  of  uncertainty, 

Has  answered  through  me  in  a  flame. 

Beauty  is  a  core  of  fire 
To  reaching  hands;  even  its  far 
Passing  leaves  a  hurt  desire 
Like  a  scar. 


RECORD 


Dreams  are  eyes  fixed  on  closed  doors 
And  on  threshold-lights  lighting  cold  floors. 

Dreams  are  doors  swung  strangely  back 
On  the  wonder  of  a  ribbony  track. 

Dreams  are  voices,  echoed  and  thinned, 
Calling  .  .  .  drowned  out  in  the  wind. 

Dreams  are  feet  on  the  edge  of  lands 
Feeling  the  suck  of  hidden  sands. 


54 


MY  SONG 

My  song  that  was  a  sword  is  still. 
Like  a  scabbard  I  have  made 
A  covering  with  my  will 
To  sheathe  its  blade. 

It  had  a  flashing  tongue  of  steel 
That  made  old  shadows  start; 
It  would  not  let  the  darkness  heal 
About  my  heart. 


THE  GREY  VEIL 


Life  flings  weariness  over  me 
Like  a  thick  grey  veil;  I  see 
Through  its  mesh  where  suns  are  cold, 
Nights  are  ancient  and  dawns  are  old. 

Now  at  last  with  glamour  gone 
I  can  see  the  naked  dawn; 
Gauge  the  hollow  depths  of  noon, 
Coolly  question  star  and  moon. 

And  where  fired  sunsets  pale 
I,  who  wear  life's  grey  veil, 
Shall  not  marvel,  shall  not  care. 
No  light  of  earth's  however  fair, 
Robbed  of  the  sting  of  its  surprise, 
Can  delude  my  sober  eyes. 


56 


THE  ANSWER 

I  asked  the  watchful  corners  of  a  ceiling, 

And  the  little  darkened  cracks  the  years  scrawled 

there, 

Why  there  are  suns,  and  if  there  is  a  purpose 
Behind  this  mask  of  life  that  people  wear. 

I  asked  some  gnarled  and  patient  shadows  groping 
Like  wise  hands  of  old  blind  men,  on  my  wall; 
And  everything  I  asked  answered  my  question 
With  that  one  answer  which  does  well  for  all. 


57 


HOURS 

I  have  known  hours  built  like  cities, 
House  on  grey  house,  with  streets  between 
That  lead  to  straggling  roads  and  trail  off, 
Forgotten  in  a  field  of  green; 

Hours  made  like  mountains  lifting 
White  crests  out  of  the  fog  and  rain, 
And  woven  of  forbidden  music — 
Hours  eternal  in  their  pain. 

Life  is  a  tapestry  of  hours 

Forever  mellowing  in  tone, 

Where  all  things  blend,  even  the  longing 

For  hours  I  have  never  known. 


58 


THE  CIRCLE 

Dreams — and  an  old,  old  waking, 
An  unspent  vision  gone; 
Night,  clean  with  silence,  breaking 
Into  loud  dawn. 

A  wonder  that  is  blurring 
The  new  day's  strange  demands, 
The  indomitable  stirring 
Of  folded  hands. 

Then  only  the  hours'  pageant 
And  the  drowsing  sound  of  their  creep, 
Bringing  at  last  the  vagrant 
Dreams  of  new  sleep. 


59 


DEFEAT 


Is  this  defeat  then,  after  all — 
This  new  indifference  to  the  street, 
This  unfelt  weight  of  roof  and  wall — 
Is  this  defeat? 

I  thought  to  make  my  spirit  wear 
Glittering  garments  of  unrest, 
To  keep  my  keen,  knife-edged  despair 
Unsheathed  and  brilliantly  unrepressed 

But  days  have  worn  my  unrest  thin; 
Time's  soft  fingers  gently  close 
Over  my  outstretched  hand,  and  in 
Their  certain  touch  I  feel  repose. 

This  is  defeat;  I  will  submit, 
Resigned  to  the  quieting  decree 
Of  defeat  that  is  indefinite 
As  victory. 


60 


THE  IMPARTIAL  GIVER 

I  who  have  spent  my  hands  in  futile  weaving, 
And  you  who  flung  yours  out  before  the  sun, 
For  all  you  held,  for  all  my  restless  grieving, 
What  have  you,  more  than  I  have,  really  won? 

My  industry  has  faltered;  through  your  fingers 
Your  sunlight  sifts  like  finely  running  sands; 
And  Time  shall  bring  us,  when  the  last  star  lingers, 
A  cross  to  hold,  made  of  our  humbled  hands. 


61 


SANDS 


My  days  are  like  sands;  colourless, 
Each  matched  to  each,  unerringly 
They  drift.  The  salt  bleach  of  a  sea 
Has  washed  them  clean  and  lustreless; 
The  teeth  of  rock  on  ragged  strands 
Have  ground  them  to  an  even  grey, 
And  one  wind  blows  them  a  one  way. 

But  Oh,  the  slow  making  of  sands. 

All  is  here;  forgotten  things 

Mix  with  the  unforgettable, 

Granite  blends  with  tinted  shell, 

And  nothing  so  stable  that  it  clings 

To  its  stability.     Had  there 

Been  more  of  marble,  more  of  gold, 

The  sands  would  hide  in  their  grim  hold 

Nothing  more  wise,  nothing  more  fair. 

But  Oh,  the  slow  making  of  sands. 


62 


Grain  on  grain  of  even  grey, 
Slowly  they  drift  in  the  one  way 
Covering  the  wreck  that  stands 
Against  my  beach  of  life.     One  mast 
Cuts  at  the  sky,  the  hull  is  fast 
In  sand — the  slow-made  sands  that  pull 
With  the  wind    .    .    .    covering    .    . 
And  leaving  every  broken  thing 
Hushed  and  coldly  beautiful. 


63 


PART  TWO 
NEEDLEWORK 


KNITTING  NEEDLES 

When  my  great-grandmother  died 

She  left  a  trunkful  of  remembering  things. 

There  are  carved  boxes  of  sandalwood 

Guarding  inconsequential  trifles  of  grave  con 
sequence, 

Like  scraps  of  faded  ribbon  and  broken  jewel 
lery 

And  the  ash  of  a  pressed  rose. 

There  are  fans  of  ivory, 

Pieces  of  fine,  worn  lace, 

And  bundles  of  yellowed  letters. 

But  most  remembering  of  all  are  her  knitting 
needles. 

They  are  made  of  black  bone 

And  gleam  with  sudden  creamy  light,  like 
lacquer. 

When  I  touch  them 

They  are  cold  with  the  death  of  many  years. 

Then  quickly  they  take  on  a  sensuous  warmth, 

And  speak  under  my  knitting  hands : 


67 


Long  ago    ... 

There  was  a  garden  steeped  in  spring, 

And  in  remembering    .    .    . 

A  seat  in  the  shade  where  flowers  were — 

A  seat  in  the  shade — and  a  riotous  blur 

Of  colour  and  scent  and  sun-gold  June    ... 

And  the  warm-armed  mists  of  last  night's  moon, 

Clouding,  shrouding  everything 

With  new  remembering    .    .    . 

And  every  heedless  second  stirred 

At  a  needle's  click,  and  passed  unheard, 

Keeping,  sweeping  Time. 


68 


Long  ago    .    .    . 

There  was  a  window  whose  shining  pane, 

Sun-bright  or  dimmed  with  rain, 

Framed  vistas  of  an  empty  day 

And  a  winding  road  winding  away 

To  end  like  a  ravelled  thread, 

Winding  away  to  coax  a  tread, 

Yet  only  echoes  might  it  bring, 

Echoes,  long  remembering — 

Echoes,  vibrant  unsilenced  sound 

That  caught  up  the  days  in  its  spirals  and  wound 

The  months,  the  years,  around  and  around, 

And  hurled  them  out  of  the  truth  of  things 

Into  the  heaven  of  rememberings    .    .    . 

What  mattered  the  minutes  slipping  past 

Under  wan  hands — unheeded,  fast — 

Keeping,  leaping  Time? 


69 


Long  ago    .    .    . 

There  were  grey  depths  in  a  white-walled  room 

Of  uncomputed  gloom. 

There  was  no  sound  save  a  click,  click,  click, 

As  even  and  true  as  a  good  clock's  tick; 

And  nothing  of  musical  silence  was  there 

To  ease  the  weight  of  unwaved  air. 

Outside  there  was  no  winter  nor  spring, 

Within  there  was  no  remembering — 

There  was  no  need  of  remembering, 

Except  to  cast  on  the  stitches  right; 

Only  the  need  of  a  little  light 

A  little  longer — nothing  at  all 

Save  the  clicking  moments'  rise  and  fall, 

As,  proud  in  their  own  importance  at  last, 

They  clicked  and  nicked  their  way    .    .    .    and 

passed    .    .    . 
Into  Time. 


70 


STITCHES 


Over  and  under, 
Under  and  out. 
Thread  that  is  fibre, 
Thread  that  is  stout. 

I'm  not  singing; 
I'm  sewing. 

Days  that  are  futile, 
Days  that  are  wise, 
Holding  the  visions 
Of  dead  men's  eyes. 

I  tell  you  I'm  not  singing; 
If  you  hear  anything 
It's  my  needle. 

Days  that  are  prophets 
With  prophecies 
Blunted  and  tangled 
As  Eternity's. 


71 


I  say  if  you  hear  anything — 

Life-threaded  hours; 
Purpose  that  wraps 
Fine  stitch  on  fine  stitch — 
Then  ravels  .  .  .  and  snaps. 


72 


MONOGRAMS 


I  am  monogramming 
Seven  dozen  napkins, 
With  tablecloths  to  match, 
For  a  bride. 

Ninety-one  times  my  needle  shall  trace 
The  leaf -like  scrolls  that  interlace 
Each  other;  up  the  padded  side 
Of  the  monogram  my  eye  shall  guide 
For  ninety-one  days  where  the  stitches  run ; 
And  every  day  one  more  is  done. 

She  is  tall  and  fair, 
She  will  be  married 
In  June.  .  .  . 

The  linen  is  fine  as  satin  is  fine; 
Its  shining  coolness  flaunts  design 
Of  death-white  poppies,  trailing  ferns 
Rioting  richly  from  Grecian  urns. 

Ghost-flowers. 
Cold,  cold  .  .  . 


73 


All  these  patterned  splendours  fade 
Before  the  crest  my  hands  have  made; 
In   the   lifeless   flax  my   stitches   cry 
With  life  my  hands  may  not  put  by. 

June    .    .    . 

Real  flowers, 

Moist  and  warm  to  touch, 

Like  flesh  .  .  . 

And  by  and  by  with  all  the  rest 
Of  intimate  things  in  her  bridal-chest, 
Gentle  muslins  and  secret  lace, 
Something  of  mine  will  have  a  place; 
Caught  in  these  scrolls  and  filigrees 
There  will  be  that  which  no  eye  sees, 
The  bulk  of  a  season's  smothered  wonder, 
My  ninety-one  days  stitched  under  and  under. 

They  will  be  decking  an  altar 
With  white  roses, 
And  lacing  an  aisle 
With  white  ribbon. 


74 


LATE  HOURS 


Crowds  are  passing  on  the  street, 
Tuck  on  tuck  and  pleat  on  pleat 
Of  people  hurrying  along, 
Homeward  bound,  throng  on  throng. 
Their  work  is  finished,  mine  undone; 
Still  my  stitches  run. 

I  cannot  watch  the  people  go, 

Fold  on  fold  and  row  on  row; 

But  I  know  each  pulsing  tread 

Is  spinning  out  a  life's  fine  thread; 

I  know  the  stars,  like  needle-gleams, 

Are  pricking  through  the  sky's  wide  seams; 

And  soon  the  moon  must  show  its  face, 

Like  a  pearl  button  stitched  in  place. 

All  the  long  hours  of  the  day 

Are  finished  now  and  folded  away; 

Yet  the  hem  is  still  undone 

Where  my  stitches  run. 


75 


MENDING 


Here  are  old  things: 

Fraying  edges, 

Ravelling  threads; 

And  here  are  scraps  of  new  goods, 

Needles  and  thread, 

An  expectant  thimble, 

A  pair  of  silver-toothed  scissors. 

Thimble  on  a  finger, 

New  thread  through  an  eye; 

Needle,  do  not  linger, 

Hurry  as  you  ply. 

If  you  ever  would  be  through 

Hurry,  scurry,  fly! 

Here  are  patches, 
Felled  edges, 
Darned  threads, 
Strengthening  old  utility, 
Pending  the  coming  of  the  new. 

Yes,  I  have  been  mending    .    .    . 

But  also, 

I  have  been  enacting 

A  little  travesty  on  life. 


76 


BEAD  WORK 


Restless  needle,  where  my  beads 
Whip  with  colour,  roll  like  seeds, 
Dive,  and  pick  up  one  and  one, 
One  and  one  till  we  are  done; 
And  fasten  each  one  firm  and  true 
Where  the  pattern  tells  you  to — 
One  and  one,  and  one  and  one. 


One  and  one,  and  one  and  one — 

Flying  needle,  as  you  run, 

As  you  pick  up  the  lobes  of  light 

Mind  you  guide  each  sparkle  right; 

Mind  this  tawny  brown  you  choose, 

Shading  it  with  light  wood  hues, 

When  you  shape  the  curving  rim 

Of  this  great  basket,  on  whose  brim 

Heap  the  designated  green, 

From  new-leaf  shades  to  laurel's  sheen, 

Then  with  dawn-pinks  and  heavy  reds 

Paint  the  drowsy  roses'  heads. 

Let  dreamy  mauves  and  tones  of  brass, 

And  bits  of  blue  in  mosaic  mass, 


77 


Speak  for  the  tints  of  timid  bloom 
Which    share    the    shadows'    checkered 
gloom    .    .    . 

Sleepy  flowers, 

Speeding  hours, 

Hours,  flowers,  hours    .    .    . 


78 


SEAMS 


I  was  sewing  a  seam  one  day — 

Just  this  way — 

Flashing  four  silver  stitches  there 

With  thread,  like  this,  fine  as  a  hair, 

And  then  four  here,  and  there  again, 

When 

The  seam  I  sewed  dropped  out  of  sight 

I  saw  the  sea  come  rustling  in, 

Big  and  grey,  windy  and  bright    .    .    . 

Then  my  thread  that  was  as  thin 

As  hair,  tangled  up  like  smoke 

And  broke. 

I  threaded  up  my  needle,  then — 

Four  here,  four  there,  and  here  again. 


79 


FINISHED  TO-NIGHT 

I  have  unleashed  my  hands,  like  hounds, 
And  I  must  not  call  them  back; 
They  are  off  with  virile  bounds 
On  the  hidden  quarry's  track. 

Though  there  come  rain  or  sun — 
Fleet  and  lean  and  white, 
They  will  follow  the  scent  until  they  run 
The  quarry  to  earth,  and  the  quarry  is  night. 


80 


A  BABY'S  DRESS 


It  is  made  of  finest  linen — 

Sheer  as  wasp-wings; 

It  is  made  with  a  flowing  panel 

Down  the  front, 

All  overrun  with  fagot-stitched  bow-knots 

Holding  hours  and  hours 

Of  fairy-white  forget-me-nots. 


And  it  is  finished. 
To-night,  crisp  with  new  pressing, 
It  lies  stiffly  in  its  pasteboard  box, 
Smothered  in  folds  of  tissue  paper 
Which  envelop  it  like  a  shroud — 
In  its  coffin-shaped  pasteboard  box. 


To-morrow  a  baby  will  wear  it  at  a  christening; 
To-morrow  the  dead-white  of  its  linen 
Will  glow  with  the  tint  of  baby  skin; 
And  out  of  its  filmy  mystery 
There  will  reach 
Baby  hands.    .    .    . 


81 


But  to-night  the  lamplight  plays  over  it  and 

finds  it  cold. 

Like  the  flower-husk  of  a  little  soul, 
Which,  new-lived,  has  fluttered  to  its  destiny, 
It  lies  in  its  coffin-shaped  pasteboard  box. 

To-morrow  will  make  it  what  hands  cannot: 
Limp  and  warm  with  babyness, 
A  hallowed  thing, 
A  baby's  dress. 


82 


CROSS-STITCH 


I   put   one   little   slanting   stitch 
On  another  little  slanting  stitch, 
Forming  rows  of  crisscross  squares, 
Until  I  had  made  a  peacock; 
And  always  my  hands  tingled 
With  the  song  of  my  needle: 

A  little  crisscross  stitch  I  take — 
Yellow  and  green  and  blue; 
Out  of  a  sea  of  them  I  make 
Beautiful  peacock  you. 

Yet  finished, 

He  disappointed  me, 

And  I  shuddered  at  his  restraint. 

But  that  night 

When  he  walked  out  of  the  sleepy  shadows, 

With  one  wink  of  a  wicked,  yellow-lidded 

eye, 
I  was  satisfied. 

/  took  a  thread  of  every  shade — 
Yellow  and  green  and  blue; 
Out  of  a  sea  of  them  I  made 
Beautiful  peacock  you. 


83 


PLAIN  SEWING 


My  stitches,  like  the  even  tide  of  feet 
Beating  against  the  pavement  of  the  street 
Below  my  window-sill,  forever  run 
Before  the  footsteps  of  the  sun. 

Down  streets  of  seams,  and  formal  avenues 
Of  basted  hems,  each  crowding  stitch  pursues, 
Seeking  no  destination  on  the  way — 
Only  the  end  of  day. 


84 


SEWING  HANDS 


My  hands  are  motion ;  they  cannot  rest 
They  are  the  foam  upon  the  sea, 
Borne  with  a  wave  to  a  fleeting  crest, 
Hurled  back,  borne  on,  unceasingly. 

They  are  existent  and  made  whole 
In  their  unrest,  as  the  entity 
Of  foam  is  spun  where  waters  roll 
Back,  and  on,  eternally. 


85 


LINGERIE 


To-day  my  hands  have  been  flattered 

With  the  cool-finger  touch  of  thin  linen, 

And  I  have  unwound 

Yards  of  soft,  folded  nainsook 

From  a  stiff  bolt. 

Also  I  have  held  a  piece  of  lawn 

While  it  marbled  with  light 

In  a  sudden  quiver  of  sun. 

So  to-night  I  know  of  the  delicate  pleasure 

Of  white-handed  women 

Who  like  to  touch  smooth  linen  handkerchiefs, 

And  of  the  baby's  tactual  surprise 

In  closing  its  fist 

Over  a  handful  of  nainsook, 

And  even  something  of  the  secret  pride  of  the 

girl 

As  the  folds  of  her  fine  lawn  nightgown 
Breathe  against  her  body. 


86 


FILET  CROCHET 


I  make  a  band  of  filet  crochet, 
And  this  is  the  pattern  I  never  forget: 
A  rose,  a  wreath  and  the  latticed  net 
Of  fine  filet  crochet. 

Thread  over  needle,  and  over  again: 
Lattice,  a  wreath  and  a  single  rose — 
That  is  the  way  the  pattern  goes 
Over  and  over  again. 

Finish  the  rose  and  start  the  wreath, 
And  careful  lest,  0  hurrying  thread, 
Something  climbs  over  the  lattice  instead 
Of  a  single  rose  and  a  wreath. 

Finish  the  wreath  and  start  the  rose, 
And  pull  in,  needle,  strangling  tight, 
Choking  out  anything  else  that  might 
Climb  with  a  wreath  and  a  rose. 

Under,  needle;  and  over,  thread; 
Something  may  grow  by  a  garden  wall, 
Yet  nothing  must  grow  in  a  pattern  at  all 
But  a  rose  and  a  wreath  of  thread. 


87 


So  thread  over  needle,  and  over  again, 
Until  there  is  nothing  else  that  grows — 
Only  a  wreath  and  a  thready  rose 
Over  and  over  again. 


88 


HEAVY  THREADS 

When  the  dawn  unfolds  like  a  bolt  of  ribbon 

Thrown  through  my  window, 

I  know  that  hours  of  light 

Are  about  to  thrust  themselves  into  me 

Like  omnivorous  needles  into  listless  cloth, 

Threaded  with  the  heavy  colours  of  the  sun. 

They  seem  altogether  too  eager 

To  embroider  this  thing  of  mine, 

My  Day, 

Into  the  strict  patterns  of  an  altar  cloth; 

Or  at  least  to  stitch  it  into  a  useful  garment. 

But  I  know  they  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 

They  will  prick  away, 

And  when  they  are  through  with  it 

It  will  look  like  the  patch  quilt  my  grandmother 

made 
When  she  was  learning  to  sew. 


89 


BUTTONHOLES 


Cut  a  little  opening 

And  overcast  it,  then 

(Throwing  the  thread  across  each  stitch) 

Stitch  it  round  again. 

A  moment's  stitching  finds  it 
Finished ;  but  not  until 
The  sun  has  burned  its  beauty  out 
And  dropped  behind  the  hill. 


90 


PUZZLED  STITCHES 


Needle,  running  in  and  out, 
In  and  out,  in  and  out, 
Do  you  know  what  you're  about, 
In  and  out,  in  and  out? 

Fingers,  going  to  and  fro, 
To  and  fro,  to  and  fro, 
Do  you  know  the  path  you  go, 
To  and  fro,  to  and  fro? 

I  might  tell  you  why  you're  taking 
Such  good  stitches:   You  are  making 
Out  of  linen,  fine  as  breaking 
Ocean-spray  upon  a  bluff, 
Pleating  for  a  Bishop's  cuff! 

I  might  make  you  understand 
That  a  Bishop's  white,  white  hand, 
Because  of  you,  will  be  more  fair, 
Will  be  raised  in  better  prayer. 

Even  then  would  you  know 
Why  you're  going  to  and  fro? 
Would  you  doubt  what  you're  about, 
Running  in  and  running  out? 


91 


SUMMER  SEWING 


Lengths  of  lawn  and  dimities, 
Dainty,  smooth  and  cool, 
In  their  possibilities 
Beautiful, 

Stretch  beneath  my  hand  in  sheets, 
Fragrant  from  the  loom, 
Like  a  field  of  marguerites 
All  in  bloom. 

Where  my  scissors'  footsteps  pass 
Fluttering  furrows  break, 
As  the  scythe  trails  through  the  grass 
Its  deep  wake. 

All  my  stitches,  running  fleet, 
Cannot  match  the  tread 
Of  my  thoughts  whose  winged  feet 
Race  ahead. 

They  are  gathering  imagery 
Out  of  time  and  space, 
That  a  needle's  artistry 
May  embrace: 


92 


Hints  of  dawn  and  thin  blue  sky, 
Breaths  the  breezes  bear, 
Wispy-waspy  things  that  fly 
In  warm  air. 

Bolts  of  dimity  I  take, 
Muslin  smooth  and  cool; 
These  my  fingers  love  to  make 
Beautiful. 


93 


HABIT 


Last  night  when  my  work  was  done, 

And  my  estranged  hands 

Were  becoming  mutually  interested 

In  such  forgotten  things  as  pulses, 

I  looked  out  of  a  window 

Into  a  glittering  night  sky. 

And  instantly 

I  began  to  feather-stitch  a  ring  around  the 
moon. 


94 


PATHS 


Needle,  you  make  me  remember  things  .  . 
A  path  through  a  wood  that  ran  like  wine, 
A  turn,  and  the  bubbling  smell  that  clings 
Close  as  breath  to  the  lips  of  springs 
Where  the  sun  is  sprinkled  fine. 

Needle,  you  have  a  path  to  run 
Where  never  the  boughs  of  trees  have  met 
And  never  has  seeped  the  rain  of  the  sun; 
But  long  is  the  way  you  have  just  begun  .  . 
Needle,  you  make  me  forget. 


95 


RIPPING 


Ripping,  snipping, 

Slashing,  gnashing 

Scissors, 

Where  the  hours  left  light  trail, 

Where  a  needle  etched  a  tale, 

Catching  in  its  driven  thread 

A  little  something  of  the  sun 

Like  an  adventitous  shred 

Of  gold,  in  duller  weaves  misspun; 

Something  of  the  swallow-wings 

That  cut  the  sky  in  singing  rings, 

And  something  of  the  intimacy 

Of  trees  whose  boughs  beckoned  my  eyes, 

The  things  I  had  not  time  to  see 

Out  of  the  day's  unsprung  surprise; 

(And  something    .    .    .    something  more 

An  incommunicable  lore 

Which  left  a  trace  along  these  seams 

Elusive  as  the  flare 

Of  a  new  moon's  gleams 

Dying  on  a  templed  stair.  .  .  .) 

Rip  and  snip, 

Slash  and  gash, 


96 


Scissors, 

Until  your  fatal  way  is  run, 

And  every  crying  stitch  undone; 

Until  your  fine,  cold  teeth  have  snipped, 

Slashed  and  gashed,  clipped  and  ripped 

Up  and  down  my  seams  of  day.  .... 

The  teeth  of  time  have  just  that  way. 


97 


MADE  OF  CRfiPE  DE  CHINE 

A  needle  running  in  white  crepe  de  chine 

Is  not  the  frail  servant  of  utility 

It  was  designed  to  be; 

It  is  an  arrow  of  silver  sunlight 

Plunging  with  a  waterfall. 

And  hands  moving  in  white  crepe  de  chine 

Are  not  slaves  of  the  precedent 

That  governs  them; 

They  are  the  crouching  women  of  a  fountain, 

Who  have  sprung  from  marble  into  life 

To  bathe  ecstatically 

In  the  brimming  basin. 


MEASUREMENTS 


Stitches  running  up  a  seam 

Are  not  like  feet  beside  a  stream, 

And  the  thread  that  swishes  after 

Is  not  at  all  like  echoed  laughter. 

Yet  stitches  are  as  quick  as  feet, 

Leaping  from  a  rocky  pleat 

To  seams  that  slip  like  marshy  ground; 

And  thread-swish  has  a  hollow  sound. 

Stitches  that  have  a  seam  to  sew 
Must  not  forget  the  way  they  go, 
While  feet  that  find  the  cool  earth  sweet 
Have  forgotten  they  are  feet, 
And  a  laugher  cares  not  why 
His  echoes  have  a  haunted  cry. 
So  stitches  running  up  a  seam 
Are  not  like  feet  beside  a  stream, 
And  the  thread  that  swishes  after 
Is  not  at  all  like  echoed  laughter. 


99 


INSTRUCTION 


My  hands  that  guide  a  needle 
In  their  turn  are  led 
Relentlessly  and  deftly 
As  a  needle  leads  a  thread. 

Other  hands  are  teaching 
My  needle;  when  I  sew 
I  feel  the  cool,  thin  fingers 
Of  hands  I  do  not  know. 

They  urge  my  needle  onward, 
They  smooth  my  seams,  until 
The  worry  of  my  stitches 
Smothers  in  their  skill. 

All  the  tired  women, 
Who  sewed  their  lives  away, 
Speak  in  my  deft  fingers 
As  I  sew  to-day. 


100 


THEN  THE  WIND  BLEW 

The  tops  of  trees  rest  my  eyes, 
Especially  the  tips  of  old,  dark  firs 
When  they  rebel  against  the  small 

manipulations 
Of  even  air  currents, 
And  leap  at  the  sky. 


101 


MY  NEEDLE'S  THREAD 

My  needle's  thread  is  long  and  slow; 
As  a  needle  goes  a  thread  must  go, 
And  lame  and  blind  a  needle  is, 
Weighed  with  a  mood's  profundities. 

My  needle's  thread  is  long  and  slack; 
A  thread  must  travel  a  needle's  track, 
And  a  needle  leads  an  aimless  course 
Labouring  against  the  force 
Of  gathering  thought    .    .    . 
A  needle's  thread  will  not  be  taut 
When  every  stitch  is  made  to  feel 
Pressure  upon  the  needle's  steel 
Of  coldly  flowing  reality, 
Fluent  as  waters  that  find  the  sea. 

My  needle's  thread  is  long  and  slack; 
A  needle  is  foiled  and  driven  back 
To  feel,  among  its  threads,  the  strands 
Of  life  moving  through  losing  hands. 


102 


TWO  SEWING 


The  wind  is  sewing  with  needles  of  rain. 

With  shining  needles  of  rain 

It  stitches  into  the  thin 

Cloth  of  earth.     In, 

In,  in,  in. 

Oh,  the  wind  has  often  sewed  with  me. 

One,  two,  three. 


Spring  must  have  fine  things 

To  wear  like  other  springs. 

Of  silken  green  the  grass  must  be 

Embroidered.    One  and  two  and  three. 

Then  every  crocus  must  be  made 

So  subtly  as  to  seem  afraid 

Of  lifting  colour  from  the  ground; 

And  after  crocuses  the  round 

Heads  of  tulips,  and  all  the  fair 

Intricate  garb  that  Spring  will  wear. 

The  wind  must  sew  with  needles  of  rain, 

With  shining  needles  of  rain, 

Stitching  into  the  thin 


103 


Cloth  of  earth,  in, 

In,  in,  in, 

For  all  the  springs  of  futurity. 

One,  two,  three. 


104 


THE  LISTENING  MACAWS 

Many  sewing  days  ago 

I  cross-stitched  on  a  black  satin  bag 

Two  listening  macaws. 

They  were  perched  on  a  stiff  branch 
With  every  stitch  of  their  green  tails, 
Their  blue  wings,  yellow  breasts  and  sharply 

turned  heads, 
Alert  and  listening. 

Now  sometimes  on  the  edge  of  relaxation 

My  thought  is  caught  back, 

Like  gathers  along  a  gathering  thread, 

To  the  listening  macaws; 

And  I  am  amazed  at  the  futile  energy 

That  has  kept  them, 

Alert  to  the  last  stitch, 

Listening  into  their  black  satin  night. 


105 


THE  LONG  DAY 


I  am  sewing  out  my  sorrow, 
Like  a  thread,  wearing  it  thin; 
It  will  be  old  and  frayed  to-morrow. 
Needle,  turn  out;  needle,  turn  in. 

Sorrow's  thread  is  a  long  thread. 
Needle,  one  stitch;  needle,  two. 
And  sorrow's  thread  is  a  strong  thread, 
But  I  will  wear  it  through. 

Then  not  only  will  sorrow 
Be  old  and  thin  and  frayed; 
But  I  shall  have  to-morrow 
Something  sorrow  has  made. 


106 


INANIMATE 


A  needle  has  no  memories; 
Less  than  the  stir  of  frozen  trees, 
Than  unheard  rain  falling  on  stone, 
Are  the  seams  that  it  has  known. 


107 


AFTER  EMBROIDERING 

I  can  take  mercerized  cotton 
And  make  a  never-flower  beautiful 
By   thinking   of   tulips   growing   in   window- 
boxes; 

I  can  work  into  cloth 
A  certain  hushed  softness 
From  an  imagined  scrutiny 
Of  a  lily's  skin, 

And  embroider  conventional  designs  the  better 
For  thinking  of  brick  garden  paths. 

But  if  I  go  farther, 

If  I  follow  the  path, 

Fling  out  the  gate, 

Plunge  one  breathless  thought  over 

an  horizon  .  .  . 
My  hands  lose  their  cunning. 


108 


THREE  SONGS  FOR  SEWING 
I 

A  fibre  of  rain  on  a  windowpane 
Talked  to  a  stitching  thread: 
In  the  heaviest  weather  I  hold  together 
The  weight  of  a  cloud. 

To  the  fibre  of  rain  on  a  windowpane 
The  talkative  stitch  replied : 
/  hold  together  with  the  weight  of  a  feather 
The  heaviest  shroud. 


109 


II 

My  needle  says:    Don't  be  young, 

Holding  visions  in  your  eyes, 

Tasting  laughter  on  your  tongue. 

Be  very  old  and  very  wise, 

And  sew  a  good  seam  up  and  down 

In  white  cloth,  red  cloth,  blue  and  brown. 

My  needle  says:   What  is  youth 

But  eyes  drunken  with  the  sun 

Seeing  farther  than  the  truth, 

Lips  that  call,  hands  that  shun 

The  many  seams  they  have  to  do 

In  white  cloth,  red  cloth,  brown  and  blue? 


110 


Ill 

One  by  one,  one  by  one, 
Stitches  of  the  hours  run 
Through  the  fine  seams  of  the  day, 
Till  like  a  garment  it  is  done 
And  laid  away. 

One  by  one  the  days  go  by, 
And  suns  climb  up  and  down  the  sky; 
One  by  one  their  seams  are  run — 
As  Time's  untiring  fingers  ply 
And  life  is  done. 


in 


LATE  SEWING 


There  is  nothing  new  in  what  is  said 
By  either  a  needle  or  a  thread: 
Stitch,  says  a  needle,  Stitch,  says  the  thread; 
Stitch  for  the  living;  stitch  for  the  dead; 
All  seams  measure  the  same. 

Garb  for  the  living  is  light  and  gay. 
While  that  for  the  dead  is  a  shrouding  grey, 
But  all  things  match  on  a  later  day 
When  little  worm-stitches  in  the  clay 
Finish  all  seams  the  same. 


112 


PART  THREE 

SPRING  FROM  A  WINDOW 


BLOSSOM-TIME 


So  long  as  there  is  April 
My  heart  is  high, 
Lifting  up  its  white  dreams 
To  the  sky. 

As  trees  hold  up  their  blossoms 
In  a  blowing  cloud, 
My  hands  are  reaching, 
My  hands  are  proud. 

All  the  crumbled  splendours 
Of  autumn,  and  the  cries 
Of  winds  that  I  remember 
Cannot  make  me  wise. 

Like  the  trees  of  April 
Fearless  and  fair — 
My  heart  swings  its  censers 
Through  the  golden  air. 


115 


IN  APRIL 


Now  I  am  Life's  victim — 
Cruel  victor  is  he 
Who  lashes  me  with  colour 
Until  I  ache  to  see. 

Who  chokes  me  with  fragrance 
Of  green  things  in  the  rain — 
Like  a  hand  around  my  throat 
So  sudden  is  the  pain. 

Life,  I  am  at  your  mercy; 
And  though  till  I  am  dead 
You  torture  me  with  April 
I  will  not  bow  my  head! 


116 


WHEN  THERE  IS  APRIL 

Who  would  fear  death  when  there  is  April? 
Like  a  flame,  like  a  song, 
To  heal  all  who  have  lived  with  yearning 
Year-through,  life-long. 

When  there  is  April  with  fulfilment 
For  longing  and  for  pain, 
For  every  reaching  hand  that  beauty 
Has  lured  in  vain. 

Who  would  shrink  from  the  earth  when  April 
With  slim  rain  hands  shall  reach 
Through  the  doors  of  dark,  and  call  them 
Who  love  her  speech. 


117 


FOREBODING 


How  shall  I  keep  April 
When  my  songs  are  done — 
How  can  I  be  silent 
And  still  feel  the  sun? 

I,  who  dreaded  silence, 

I,  who  April-long 

Kept  my  heart  from  breaking 

With  the  cry  of  song. 

How  can  I  hold  sunlight 
In  my  hands,  like  gold, 
And  bear  the  pain  of  silence 
When  my  songs  are  old? 


118 


THE  END 


LD  21-100m-7,'33 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CQD33S12S7 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


